


Alone

by bauble



Series: Stay, thou art so beautiful [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 18:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14195061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Coda set during Act III of Stay, thou art so beautiful





	Alone

Eames receives the call immediately after he finishes a job.

The thrill of success used to linger for months, satisfaction thrumming in his blood at a flawless heist, an incredible con. He could celebrate for weeks and take a well deserved vacation before the itch for new work came again.

Now he finds that the high lasts barely a few days before weariness sets in, eclipsing the previous satisfaction. Or perhaps it's simply the news he's received.

The sky is an indeterminate shade of gray. Rain comes down at an angle, bouncing off the windowpanes with a startling amount of noise. There aren't any windows on the main floor of the casino but the penthouse is wrapped in them, offering a three hundred and sixty degree view of the glittering city below. 

He ejects the hangers-on he acquired from playing at the high stakes tables and sits in the middle of the enormous suite, alone. Arthur's away on another one of his mysterious business trips and Eames knows better than to ring him.

There's a lengthy obituary in _The Daily Telegraph_ , which notes that the venerable Lord Eames is survived by a son—it's the very last sentence of the piece. Practically a footnote, less of interest than the Lord's laughably brief naval service and the one occasion forty years ago in which he had tea with the queen.

There'll be no funeral, no reception, no wake—the will was quite specific regarding that 'sentimental nonsense'. There won't even be a gravesite; his remains have been donated to science, as per his last request.

Eames has inherited a wretched old estate, a string of minor titles, and a pittance to be distributed by Father's tightfisted financial advisor some grim day in the future. 

There are appraisers crawling over the house, now. Measuring every inch, determining every dusty object's value. Eames has no desire to participate in the process—the whole lot can burn to the ground, for all he cares. 

He hasn't set foot in the place since he left school for the military all those years ago. He'd thought, once upon a time, that he might return if Father ever deigned to—

Foolish to expect anything from him. Irrelevant, now.

 

 

 

"You've been gone quite a while," Eames says as Arthur enters the flat.

"You've been drinking." Arthur flicks on a lamp. "In the dark."

"Your keen eye for detail dazzles." Eames blinks in the sudden flood of light. "Literally and figuratively."

"Just you in here?"

"Yes." Eames takes a sip from his glass, only a trifle unsteadily. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"You usually find someone to keep you company." Arthur slips out of his jacket, hangs it. Eames watches the flex of muscle in Arthur's back, lines apparent through the thin shirt material. There's an itch between Eames' shoulders that appears every time he goes too long without--he tries not to think about it. "Or several someones."

"I sent them away."

"You know you don't have to," Arthur says, the picture of equanimity. "I don't object to watching."

"Does it turn you on? Watching me fuck someone else?" Eames leans forward, wanting to break through the tranquil surface, the steady indifference. He wants to throw a rock and cause a tsunami, even if he knows that rock will ultimately sink to the bottom.

"Not as much as watching you take it."

Eames leans back. "And you know I don't much care for that when it's not you."

"Irrelevant," Arthur murmurs, and something cold travels down the length of Eames' spine. It can be easy to forget in the midst of working together, sleeping together, traveling together--what Arthur truly is. 

Eames sits up, fingers tightening around his glass. "You do what I tell you to, not the other way around. I'm not your bloody plaything."

"Of course not," Arthur's by Eames' side in an instant, voice low and soothing. "Do you remember Malik? How he made you come until you were dry, and still you wanted more?"

The memory of Malik's cock inside comes back to Eames in a wave of heat that's almost physical. Arthur and Eames had picked Malik out together, had brought him back to their room to suck Eames' cock. Malik had been fine at cocksucking, brought Eames to orgasm easily enough, and then Arthur took over. 

It was Arthur who suggested that Malik eat Eames out after, it was Arthur who showed Malik how to finger Eames until he was hard again. It was Arthur who teased Eames with his cock until he was desperate for it, promising he'd do anything, anything if Arthur would just let Eames suck him.

They'd fucked him from both ends, made him come untouched. He'd enjoyed it, Eames remembers with shame. He'd begged them to keep going, towards the end.

Eames throws back the last of his Scotch as his blood begins to warm. Amber liquid splashes over the rim and onto his wrist. "That was a one-off."

"It doesn't have to be." Arthur licks the Scotch away and Eames feels his cock stiffen. "You liked it. You came because you were being used, a couple of holes to fuck."

"No." It's weak. Arthur can hear it as he kisses along Eames' neck. 

"No?"

"Only you," Eames whispers, already envisioning what it'll be like to have Arthur's gorgeous cock in his mouth. It's been so long since Arthur permitted Eames this. "It's only because I want to make you come."

"Are you sure?"

There's a low throb in the back of Eames' skull, a pressure that seems to increase with the stiffening of his cock. "Yes."

"A shame. But perhaps…" Arthur takes a step back, ignoring Eames' plaintive mewl of protest. "Would you like to suck me?"

Eames slides out of the chair onto his knees. "Yes. Please."

"So eager." Arthur's thumb traces over Eames' left eyebrow. "What if I wanted to watch you get fucked while you suck me, hm? Like with Malik?"

"That was only—"

"But what if I want it?" Arthur puts the heel of his hand against Eames' forehead, preventing him from leaning in to nuzzle against Arthur's cock the way he aches to. "What if it's the only thing I want?"

"Arthur," Eames starts, uneasy.

Arthur pushes him back, leveling a disappointed look at him. Eames watches, dazed, as Arthur walks out of the apartment.

He doesn't come back for a week.

 

 

 

The first day is fine. The second day, a little harder. The third day, Eames finds three different people and has sex with them all: sucks their cocks, fucks their tight arses. It provides momentary pleasure, but it's not enough. When they're gone, he finds himself thinking of his father's estate—at least, the estate that used to belong to his father—

The fourth day, he begins to feel the ache. It centers around his bollocks and radiates throughout his entire body. He jerks off as many times as he can during the day, sucks his own fingers while imagining it's Arthur, even fucks himself with a vibrator. None of it matters.

On the fifth day, he texts Arthur. On the sixth day, he calls and leaves a voicemail, not begging, but close.

On the seventh day, Arthur strolls in like he hasn't been gone at all, like he hasn't kept Eames strung out and waiting for days. The nearly unbearable pressure at the back of Eames' head eases, slightly.

"Arthur," Eames says, approaching Arthur from behind carefully. He traces down the line of Arthur's spine with two fingers. "It's been a week."

"Since?"

Eames tucks his nose into the join of Arthur's shoulder and neck, takes a deep breath that hits him like a wave of bliss. Arthur is here, close enough to smell and touch. To taste, if he allows it. "Since we were last together."

"I guess it has been." Arthur takes a step away and Eames clamps down on a pitiful sound that threatens to escape.

"Arthur."

"Yes?"

"I need—" Eames licks his lips. "I need—"

"You can tell me." Arthur turns to face Eames. "Tell me."

"I—" Eames' voice drops to nothing, barely a mutter. "I need to come."

"You have already." Arthur's voice is matter of fact. No jealousy, no particular feeling of any kind.

"It's not the same with other people," Eames says, reluctantly. How has Arthur reduced him to this?

"Why is that?" Arthur continues to stroke Eames' cheek. He sounds curious, not gloating.

"I need your cock," Eames says, though his mind flashes to the memory of eating Arthur out, the sheer ecstasy of burying his face in Arthur, and knows that isn't precisely correct either.

"Is that it?" 

"No." Eames finally permits himself to lean into Arthur's touch. "I want to make you come."

Arthur smiles. "Want to?"

"I—need to," Eames admits, reluctantly. He's not sure when, exactly, his ability to orgasm became so deeply intertwined with Arthur's pleasure. He has sex with other people, comes with others. But it never feels the way it does with Arthur. Nobody else lifts him out of his ceaseless, droning thoughts and makes him soar.

"Very good." Arthur's thumb traces the seam of Eames' mouth. "Don't you feel better now that you've told me?"

"Yes." Eames barely parts his lips to breathe the word, terrified that if he reacts too eagerly that Arthur will pull away.

"Would you like to please me?" Arthur rests the tip of his thumb of Eames' lower lip. A test.

"Yes," Eames whispers, cock hardening in his trousers.

"Will you do what I tell you to?" Arthur presses down, opening Eames' mouth further.

Eames quells the impulse to lick. He closes his eyes. He can control himself. "Yes."

"You know what I want."

"No." Eames summons up the will to resist, his head pounding, the rest of his body numbing from cold. "That's the only thing I won't--I don't want any bloody strangers up my arse."

"Then it appears we are at an impasse." Arthur steps away, all warm solicitousness gone.

"Arthur, please," Eames says, feeling bereft. Frightened. He can't go another week. He can't. "Don't leave me alone again."

"You want me to give you what you want without giving in return." Arthur moves gracefully across the room, undressing neatly and yet lazily, every strip of flesh revealed winding Eames up tighter and tighter. "That doesn't sound like fair dealing."

Eames knows what would make the pressure stop, the cold thaw. "Anything else. Isn't there anything—"

Arthur's nearly nude, tantalizing and mouth-wateringly gorgeous. He glances over his shoulder, back at Eames. "Maybe I should go."

Eames sinks to his knees before Arthur. "Please."

"Please, what?"

Eames bows his head. They'll pick someone out together, again, like Malik. "I'll do it."

"Whatever I tell you?" Arthur's voice is low, seeming to thrum through Eames' blood. "Will you obey?"

"Yes," Eames says, despite the tiny voice in the back of his mind that sends up an alarm at the broadening of the terms.

Arthur smiles, wider, as he finally, finally, eases his cock into Eames' mouth. "You will, won't you? They'll be so pleased with you."

Eames sways forward, sucking blissfully. This is what he needs and wants. This is everything.

 

 

 

Eames doesn't recognize the large room he's in. The décor is expensive, modern, a bedroom with a vast window overlooking a silvery blue lake. Mountains rise in the distance.

"Welcome, Eames," Arthur says. 

Eames turns to face Arthur, vaguely disoriented. Everything feels hazy, the colors too bright and sounds too sharp, as if they're in a dream. But they aren't dreaming, are they? It's difficult to think clearly. Eames wants to touch Arthur. Be touched by him.

Arthur kisses Eames. He murmurs, "I'm going to come inside you."

"Yes," Eames agrees, cock hardening. "Yes, you—"

"But first, you have to do something for me."

"Anything." Eames licks all along Arthur's elegant neck, thrills quietly at the access to smooth skin.

"I'm going to watch you."

"Watch me—by myself?" Arthur has requested it before; Eames fucked himself with a vibrator, stroked himself off, sucked a dildo like it was Arthur's cock. He doesn't mind—likes it, in fact. Takes an exhibitionist thrill in performing, in coaxing a reaction from Arthur.

"With others."

"Who?" They've done this before, too. Invited men, women, couples into their bed. When Eames is too exhausted to participate, he enjoys watching Arthur take someone apart, meticulous and exacting.

"Some of my," Arthur pauses, "prospective business partners."

Eames frowns. "Prospective—"

Arthur disentangles himself from Eames' embrace as half a dozen men enter the room. "They've been very eager to meet you."

None of the men are familiar. It's a mix of races and ages, heights and weights, handsome and ugly. They all stare at Eames with hunger, visible intent. He should feel alarmed, he thinks, but his mind is sluggish, unable to make sense of what he's seeing.

"Arthur, who—"

Arthur slides a finger across Eames' mouth and presses his erection against Eames' back, tantalizing and distracting. "Once they're done," Arthur murmurs hotly in Eames' ear, "you can make me come as much as you want."

The voice in the back of his mind clamors for Eames to argue, to try to leave the room. But there's a heat rising in his belly and Arthur's commands leave him lightheaded, unable to resist as he's pushed onto his knees.

The first man that approaches has flat grey eyes and says nothing. He unzips his trousers, leaving the rest of his expensive business suit untouched, and pulls out his cock. It dangles, soft, in front of Eames' face.

Eames flinches but can't pull away. Arthur holds him by the shoulder, grip implacable, and whispers, "Put that beautiful mouth to use, Eames. Suck him like you'd suck me."

"No," Eames says as the cock in front of him begins to harden, bumps against his nose. "Get him away from me."

"But I want to watch you." Arthur kneels behind Eames and cups Eames' cock through his trousers. "He won't last long. Look at how hard he is already."

The man's cock has stiffened considerably, bobbing languidly in the air. Eames turns away from the unfamiliar smell, from the man he feels no attraction for whatsoever, but Arthur begins to knead Eames' cock through his trousers and it feels—it feels as incredible as Arthur's hand always feels.

Maybe Eames can make this quick. What are a few minutes of cocksucking compared to Arthur's approval, his pleasure, the joy of making him come?

Eames licks the tip of the cock gingerly, wraps a hand round the base. He jerks it until he hears a groan. There's bitter precome and pubic hair scratching at his skin, but Arthur murmurs, "Good," and Eames forces himself to continue.

Eames pulls off when the man begins to come, allowing it to spatter across his neck and chest instead. He looks away and the man withdraws.

"Very good," Arthur says as he helps Eames stand up. "I know that was difficult. But it'll get easier, I promise."

A new man—also fully dressed—kneels before Eames, glassy-eyed and eager. Eames watches blankly as the man unzips Eames' trousers and bends down to rub his cheek against the front of Eames' underwear.

"He wants to blow you," Arthur says. "You're the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen."

A wave of disgust rolls over Eames. The man is unkempt and greasy, panting as he mouths at the shape of Eames' cock. Nothing about this is appealing aside from the way Arthur holds Eames tightly. Possessively.

Arthur flicks Eames' underwear down and says, "Go ahead."

The man swallows the length of Eames' soft dick down, begins bobbing with growls of satisfaction. Despite the lack of interest, Eames' body begins to respond. The suction on his cock is steady and strong, technique flawless.

"Doesn't that feel good?" Arthur whispers in Eames' ear. "There are rewards for obedience."

Eames tips his head back onto Arthur's shoulder and closes his eyes. If he can focus only on Arthur's words, it's easy to pretend this isn't happening, that it's Arthur mouthing at him. Arthur praises Eames as he orgasms, tells him how good he is for listening. Submitting. 

Perhaps now they're done with this unpleasant business. Perhaps it will be just Arthur and Eames now, with the others watching. Eames wouldn't mind that.

"Relax," Arthur says. He lifts Eames onto a bed.

Eames sinks into the mattress, ready to drift off when he feels someone prying his legs open. "What—" Eames struggles to sit up, but Arthur plants on hand in the center of his chest and holds him down.

"I can't believe it's really him." The man holding his legs is American, with a face that Eames recognizes somehow.

"I saw the way you looked at him during inception," Arthur says, and the name snaps into Eames' memory: Robert Fischer. "I told you: I can bring you things that your father's money can't."

"What is he—" Eames blinks in confused arousal as fingers slick his opening. How could he have not recognized Fischer's face earlier? He knows Fischer—studied him and practiced forging him. How is Fischer here, now?

"He's here to make you feel amazing," Arthur says as Fischer hikes Eames' legs up. It's unclear who, exactly, Arthur is speaking to. "He'll make you forget all about the world."

"Hey," Fischer says softly, and to Eames' surprise, the greeting seems to be directed at him.

"Hullo," Eames replies. He feels drunk, maybe. Like his body, which is thrumming with endorphins and warmth, is slowly disconnecting from his jumbled mind and the tinny voice that shouts at him to fight, to flee.

"Arthur says you've done this before." Fischer strokes Eames' hole, eases a finger in and out.

"I..." Eames doesn't know how to vocalize the words and thoughts running through his mind. Sex with strangers, sex with Arthur, sex with both—he's done it all, but not like this. He parts his lips, but they stay slack, refuse to form the proper words.

"You're so tight. I wasn't sure about this—sharing you with other men, watching you be passed around like a party favor." Fischer's up to two fingers now. "But watching you has been hot. I'm glad I get this first."

Fischer is gorgeous, dark and lean the way Eames has always preferred. How could Eames have forgotten him? How could Eames have forgotten how much he wanted to be fucked by him? Except, did he—

Vaguely, Eames is aware that Arthur has withdrawn to a corner of the room. Despite the distance, Eames can still feel his gaze, the weight of his presence, sparking desire in Eames' dazed mind.

"You're still wearing clothing," Eames says, biting his lip when Fischer's fingers brush against his prostate.

"Would you prefer that I not?" Fischer asks, lifting one eyebrow.

"I want to see you," Eames says, reaching out to undo a button on Fischer's shirt. His fingers are clumsy, slow, as if he were moving through water.

Fischer chuckles as he sits back and unwraps himself. Eames drinks in the slender, lovely body and pulls Fischer in for a kiss. He tastes of mint and expensive Bourbon, kisses back with expert and flirtatious tongue.

Eames feels his arousal begin to build again—not enough for an erection, but low, like heated coals. Fischer's cock rubbing up against Eames' is pleasant, no oversensitivity. When he pushes inside Eames' arse, it feels good.

Eames' head falls back as Fischer fucks him in short, deep strokes. All of Eames' earlier protests seem silly now—why was he so against this room, this plan, these men? Fischer is gorgeous. Perhaps Eames was wrong to question Arthur. 

Eames wraps his legs round Fischer's waist, urges him to come. A dim corner in the back of Eames' brain registers alarm when he feels a trickle of semen down his inner thigh—surely Fischer would use a condom? 

Eames reclines back into the cloud-like softness of the bed, feeling stretched and well-used. As Fischer moves away, Arthur reappears over him. 

"How was that?" Arthur asks, smiling.

"Excellent," Eames replies contentedly. "I want to take a nap."

"Soon." Arthur pushes the sweaty hair back from Eames' forehead. "It felt good when you did what I told you to, didn't it?"

"It felt—" Eames hesitates. "Fischer made me feel good."

"He did, because you listened." Arthur's voice is gentle but insistent. "Isn't that right?"

Eames doesn't know why a part of him wants to challenge Arthur's words. It seems easier to agree. "I suppose."

"That's because when you obey, you feel good." Arthur bends down to bless Eames' lips with a kiss. "Obey them, obey me."

Before Eames can question Arthur on what that might mean, he's being flipped over onto his stomach. Eames tries to sit up but there's someone holding him down by the shoulders. 

Two hands cup his buttocks and spread them, far enough for Eames to feel his hole flutter in the cool air. Eames thrashes, trying to break free, and then there's something wet—a tongue that shocks him into stillness.

Eames' entire body goes rigid as the tongue traces the edge of his pucker, teasing over sensitive nerve endings. It's not Arthur's mouth on him, Eames is sure of that. There's not much skill or technique, simply a lot of saliva and eagerness. The come is being licked and sucked out of him.

"Don't you see that there's no reason to be alarmed?" Arthur asks, fingers combing Eames' hair. "Surrender, and you will feel wonderful."

Eames is so distracted that he hardly notices that his legs are being spread wider. Something larger than a tongue begins to press in.

"What—"

"Do you remember my words?" Arthur replies as the unfamiliar cock fills Eames, larger than Fischer's.

"I should—obey." Eames takes a deep breath as the cock begins to move. The thrusts are harsh and jerky, almost painful. Arthur's hand is in Eames' hair, soothing him.

"Would you like something in your mouth?" Arthur asks.

Eames does. He wants Arthur's fingers, something familiar to suck and focus on while a stranger's dick buries itself in his arse. "Yes."

Eames is rearranged on the corner of the bed as easily as a rag doll, splayed legs over one side and his chin dangling over the edge of the mattress. He doesn't receive Arthur's fingers, though. 

Another man's cock is guided to his lips. Eames can't see anything of what looks like from this angle, only that it's not someone he's interacted with before. He keeps his mouth shut and the fingers in his hair tighten—a warning.

"Eames," Arthur says.

Eames winces and parts his lips, allowing access. Arthur's grip releases as he does.

Sucking a cock isn't easy from this angle, especially not with a different one ramming into Eames from behind simultaneously. He does his best, conscious of Arthur's attention, soaking up the gentle praise Arthur offers now that he's no longer trying to rebel. If he's good, maybe he'll be allowed to suck Arthur next.

The man in Eames' arse shudders and fucks forward three times, hard. When the cock pulls out, Eames wonders if they're done yet.

"You've been very good, my dove, very good," Arthur says, palm light against the small of Eames' back. "I know it's been difficult, but you've made me very happy."

The words warm Eames, cause him to double his efforts in blowing the man before him.

Fingers skim over the curve of Eames' arse—Arthur's fingers, fingers Eames would know if he was blindfolded and deaf and tied up. "You want my cock, don't you?" Arthur murmurs into Eames' ear. "You miss it. You don't like feeling empty, do you?"

Eames groans his agreement. He does want Arthur's cock. He'll do anything for it. 

Come fills Eames' mouth, but it's not bitter. It tastes salty, milky, and Eames finds himself almost enjoying the texture of it. He swallows every drop while Arthur coos his approval.

A new cock penetrates Eames' arse far more easily than before. He's not as large and it's easier, slicked with come. Under Arthur's praise, Eames is starting to relax. It almost feels nice, a pleasant tingle as his prostate is brushed, a smile from Arthur.

The stranger pulls Eames backwards onto his lap and Eames moans at the new angle, getting hard again. He begins to lift himself up, impaling himself on the thick cock beneath him. His toes curl as his thighs strain, hard enough to leak precome all over his own belly. There's no need to protest, or to wonder or to think—he feels infinitely better when he doesn't.

Eames feels free. He is free. Isn't--

Eames comes before the man beneath him does, slumping to the side. The man rolls him over and begins to pound into him. Eames quivers as the relentless stimulation to his prostate forces another weak orgasm, and moans when the man coats his insides with come. He's dripping with it now, wetness dribbling down the back of his balls.

He wraps his legs around the next man willingly, sighs with pleasure at the cock that presses inside. Eames reaches down to play with his own balls, thumb his oversensitive cock, savoring the orgasm that rolls over him, in him, through him.

Eames loses track of the cocks that make it into his body, his mouth. He welcomes them all, eager to come and make them come. He's passed around and played with, nipples bitten and lick and sucked, ejaculated on before being cleaned up by eager tongues. Throughout it all, he is conscious of Arthur watching in the corner, radiant in his approval.

The man on top begins to move and Eames gasps, shivering as he's filled, over and over. Arthur was right—Arthur is always right. Eames comes dry, split open on cock and blissful with it. He floats on the edge of consciousness, overwhelmed.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Arthur asks, voice gorgeous and deep across the room. "I can give you all this and more."

The hands and cocks and tongues withdraw, seemingly satiated. Eames rolls onto his back, sore and dripping. He stares blankly at the ceiling until Arthur approaches.

"You have been good for me, my little dove," Arthur murmurs as he climbs onto the bed and feeds Eames his dick. "Such good behavior deserves a reward."

Eames takes Arthur's cock into his mouth as gratitude races through his veins. This is what makes everything—no matter how painful or humiliating--worth it. There is nothing else.

"You liked that, didn't you? Being used." Arthur eases out of Eames' mouth, ignoring Eames' low whine, and repositions himself between Eames' legs. "But none of them can make you scream the way I can."

"Only you," Eames agrees, raspy and fervent. His throat aches, his entire body hurts. But all that vanishes as soon as Arthur begins to fuck him. All of it is replaced by a searing, shocking pleasure that ripples through every inch of Eames' exhausted body.

Arthur allows Eames to suck on his fingers. He allows Eames to fuck himself on Arthur's perfect cock. He allows Eames to make him come.

It's exhilarating—better than being drunk, than getting high, than pulling off the most perfect and impossible dream-heist. In Arthur's arms, the past vanishes. The disapproval, the lack of surprise in his father's eyes when Eames was expelled from the military; the way his father looked in that coffin, thin and pale and—

Nothing can compare to the rapturous pleasure that sweeps away all confusion and dread. Eames throws his head back as he comes. This is what he needed. Arthur will always give him what he needs.

fin


End file.
